


Jupiter and Mars

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Dark Past, Emotional Baggage, Episode Tag, Gen, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot finally lays his greatest demon to rest</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jupiter and Mars

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) This is my [](http://leveragexchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**leveragexchange**](http://leveragexchange.livejournal.com/)   fic written for [](http://steeleblue.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://steeleblue.livejournal.com/)**steeleblue**  . Y’all go check out the comm. There’s some good stuff going up!  
> 2.) I love the S3 finale, especially “The Big Bang Job,” with a truly embarrassing intensity. Those two eps own my soul. However, I do have one quibble – we never get any closure for Eliot, whose soul is, basically, ripped open and dragged over broken glass. So I have applied the fanfic fix to this sad canon failure.  
> 3.) Huge thanks to [](http://sheryden.livejournal.com/profile)[**sheryden**](http://sheryden.livejournal.com/)   and [](http://telaryn.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://telaryn.livejournal.com/)**telaryn**  , who looked this over for me (at the last minute, no less). Y'all are the best!  
> 4.) How excited was I to discover that Mars wasn’t just the god of war (which I knew), but that he was also an _agrarian_ god? That’s right, the god of growing things. Tell me Eliot isn’t Mars.

It was over. They had done it. Somehow they had managed to bring down Damien Moreau. On his home turf, no less, _without_ bloodshed. While giving the people of San Lorenzo what promised to be an honest government. And they were all alive.

So why did he still feel so … unsettled?

He glanced around the ballroom. President Vittori - and, shit, how unbelievable was _that_? - had opened the palace to the people, claiming it was their victory as well as his, and the entire population of San Lorenzo seemed to be here now, celebrating that victory with him. Or maybe mourning with him the loss of their beautiful First Lady-to-be.

And, yeah, _that_ was a mess that would need some careful handling …

He leaned against the bar, cradling a barely-touched beer in one hand, and scanned the crowd, though more from habit than necessity. General - no, not a general, not any more - Flores' men were here, some in uniform, some less conspicuous, and he knew those men, trained by and loyal to Flores, would have security well in hand. But that didn't mean an extra pair of eyes, so well practiced at this sort of thing, wouldn't be welcome.

Who better to spot a threat than a man who'd so often _been_ that threat?

He winced and dropped his gaze to his beer. Maybe that was the problem. Since he'd stood by that pool in Washington, his past and present had been colliding in violent waves, keeping him helplessly off balance. Damien, Flores, Nate - he'd been pulled and tossed between them, back and forth, in an endless game of tug-o'-war until he no longer quite knew where he belonged. What he was. Killer, savior, soldier, thief-

_You're not that man any more._

Which man? _What_ wasn't he?

And what, exactly, _was_ he?

He saw Hardison and Parker across the room, Hardison showing her something on that iPad thing that seemed attached to his hand, and she grinning like, well, like the crazy person she was, caught a glimpse of Nate chatting up Vittori's new Minister of … Something, and knew Sophie, in one disguise or another, was floating around the edges of the crowd like the ghost she was supposed to be.

Where did he fit with them now? _Did_ he fit? Had his past with Damien canceled out whatever present, and future, he once thought he'd had with them?

And what about when they discovered the rest of it?

_You think you know what I've done?_

He turned away from the crowd and leaned on the bar, closing his eyes as a shudder ran through him. A warehouse of bodies in D.C. Shallow graves in the jungles of Myanmar, Vietnam and Bolivia. Jobs gone bad in Sri Lanka, Turkey and North Korea, and jobs gone _exactly_ the way they were supposed to in Berlin, Marseilles and Islamabad.

_I've hurt people._

_There are nine places a professional will use to hide an injection._

_If it were me, I'd take 'em out in transit._

_I'm a bad guy._

_That's how Moreau does things._

_I've hurt people._

_Spencer, my friend, I see you haven't lost your touch._

_**Reminds me of Belgrade.** _

He flinched violently and slammed a fist onto the bar, almost knocking over his beer. It had seemed so easy then. His skills, Damien's brain and ambition, and an entire world to be claimed. And why not? Corruption, violence, _evil_ , had existed in the world before him, would exist long after he was gone. Why not try to manage it, control it, get some good from it? He'd been used by so many others - hell, by his own _government_ \- and hadn't seen a penny of the profits gained by his own efforts. His own _blood_. Why not start reaping what he sowed?

Damien had made it sound so simple. So _right_.

But that was the problem with dealing with the devil. He was always smarter, always one step ahead, always had one more little caveat to throw into the contract. And he was the only one who knew what the fine print _really_ said.

But he'd done it anyway, struck his little deal, signed away so much of himself over the years that he just wasn't sure he had much left. Hadn't really thought about it or even cared-

Until a man named Nate Ford and three of the most fucked up people he'd ever met had wandered into his life-

And had started laying claim to pieces of his soul he didn't even know still existed. And then demanded _more_.

Except that those pieces were still held by the devil-

He felt an odd tickling between his shoulders and, instincts on alert, turned slowly away from the bar to drag his gaze slowly around the room, searching for the threat. Calculating lines of sight and trajectory, he lifted his gaze to scan the balconies-

And saw Sophie, half in shadow and half out, the queen who would never be crowned. Only she wasn't watching the celebration she couldn't join. Instead, her gaze, even across this distance so deep and intense, was fixed on _him_ , piercing through him as sure and as sharp as any sniper's bullet.

Then she smiled. Warm and soft and … true. Not Sophie Devereaux, queen of the grifters, or Rebecca Ibanez, martyred saint of San Lorenzo, or any one of the thousand other characters who lived inside her. Not a character at all, but _her_ , the woman she'd gone away to find and who'd come back as-

His friend.

_You're not that man any more._

She'd believed the words when she'd spoken them. Believed them now, even after all this. Believed in _him_. In the man he'd become.

They all did.

The realization hit him with a staggering force, snatching the breath from his lungs. _They all did._ He gasped and reeled dizzily as his mind grappled with the truth. They'd been pissed at him - and, shit, who could blame them? - but they hadn't lost their faith in him. Hadn't driven away the monster in their midst, because they didn't see him as a monster. Just saw him as … theirs. Whatever it was they'd had _before_ all this was still there.

Maybe even stronger.

He swallowed hard and stared up at her again, hardly daring to believe it, and, as if reading his mind, she nodded slowly, still smiling. Reassuring him. Then she blew him a kiss from gloved fingers and stepped back into the shadows.

When she had gone, he squared his shoulders and glanced around the room again, finding Nate, Parker and Hardison. Nate, still talking with the Minister of Whatever, wore an all too familiar devious look, no doubt already hatching some new bat-shit crazy scheme, Hardison held up a distant high five - _for morale, man!_ \- and Parker grinned with an insane glee as she waved the watch she'd just stripped from some poor bastard's wrist. Appalled - Jesus, they'd stolen a fucking _country_! Wasn't that enough for her? - he scowled and jabbed a finger at her and mouthed, “Put it back!”

Shit, these people would be the death of him!

He remembered Sophie's warm smile.

And the life of him.

_You're not that man any more._

Maybe not. _They_ didn't seem to think so.

Maybe it was time he found out just what he was _now_. What he might still become.

He looked up again to where Sophie had stood, bobbed his head in a small bow to his unseen queen, then turned and walked out of the room.

And maybe it was time he called the devil on their deal.

*~*~*

He sat on the edge of his bunk and stared down at the concrete floor, head bowed and hands clasped loosely between his knees. He'd finally stopped pacing, stopped banging his fists against the bars and walls, finally stopped screaming out curses and threats to the guards and cameras.

He'd finally exhausted his rage, and was left now with only disbelief.

How had this happened?

He'd spent the better part of the past fifteen years building his empire, watching the mistakes of others and learning from them, careful never to repeat them. He'd been as liberal with bribes as with bloodshed, had used the law as often as he'd subverted it, had surrounded himself with people who were the very best at what they did and had made certain those who stood with him profited royally while those who dared stand against him suffered brutally. He owned more governments than the oil and banking industries combined, had directors of the world's intelligence and law enforcement agencies on speed-dial.

He had made himself _untouchable_.

And he'd been brought down by thieves and conmen.

And by Eliot Spencer.

He swore foully and thrust himself to his feet again, raking a hand through his hair and resuming his angry pacing. Why the _hell_ wasn't the man dead? Christ, he'd sent a fucking _army_ after him! The best men he had, every one as ruthless as he was experienced, with explicit orders to kill. And _Spencer_ had been the only one to walk away!

Then again, Eliot always _had_ been better than Chapman. Better than _anyone_. It was what had made him so dangerous. So valuable.

He should have killed the man himself-

The loud blare of the elevator alarm broke into his thoughts, and he turned sharply back to the bars to see what was happening now. The two guards posted on either side of the elevator seemed as puzzled as he, and he frowned as one drew his gun and the other his radio.

A frisson of hope shot through him. Perhaps Ribera had come to his senses and realized where his true loyalty, or at least his best chance at the power he so craved, lay. But the guard with the radio turned to his companion and gestured for him to stand down, then explained whatever was happening. The other shrugged and holstered his gun, frowning, still puzzled but no longer worried.

Not Ribera, then.

No longer caring, he started to turn away, but stopped sharply as the elevator door rumbled open-

And Eliot Spencer stepped out.

*~*~*

He had no idea what to expect. At any moment, one of the guards could call the garrison commander, a _very_ capable man who'd once served as Flores' aide, for confirmation of his “orders,” or, worse, could call Flores himself. There was no reason any of these men, professionals all, should take the word of an unknown American civilian who said he was here to question Damien Moreau.

Except that, apparently, word of who this “civilian” was, or once had been, had already spread through the ranks …

He managed to convince them that he had to do this alone, persuaded them to turn off the cameras for the duration of his “interrogation,” even suggested they search him, “just to be safe.” Then he got into the elevator, closed the door and pushed the button-

And hoped to hell that Nate would understand when he explained all this later.

When the elevator stopped, he stepped out and the two guards, both eyeing him suspiciously, stepped in, just as he had requested. The door closed again, but the elevator car stayed where it was. That was all right; he just needed them not to see or hear.

 _No one_ needed to hear this.

He stood where he was a moment, willing calm upon himself, then drew a deep breath and started forward, bracing himself against the presence he could already feel. Damien was at his cell door, unkempt from weariness and rough handling but still imposing, and staring through the bars, his face impassive but raw fury in his eyes. Those eyes locked with his and, once more, he was reminded of the power in them.

The power he'd never managed to find the want or the will to resist.

Until now.

He thought back to the pool, to the pull those eyes, this man, had exerted on him then, and his own instinctive response to it. Once upon a time, a lifetime ago, he'd given in to that pull without a struggle, had given in to this man without a question, had done whatever Damien needed, _been_ whatever Damien needed, giving up more and more of himself in the process. Damien demanded absolute loyalty from his people, and he'd given that without a second thought, the soldier in him _craving_ a cause, a flag, to serve. He'd given every thought, every talent, every instinct he possessed to Damien, binding himself to the man with a soldier's devotion. Hell, he'd fought and bled and killed for Damien, just as he once had for his country. But that hadn't been enough; for Damien, nothing was _ever_ enough. There had always been one more test to be passed, one more sacrifice to be made-

Until, ultimately, Damien had demanded his soul. The man had asked of him, and gotten from him, things he once would have sworn on his mama's Bible he'd never do, wasn't _capable_ of doing-

Except that, for Damien, he was. For Damien, he'd been capable of _anything_. And only when it had started to take a toll on his sanity had he found the strength to walk away.

He'd thought he'd made a clean break, thought when he'd left Damien's service - so far as he knew, the only man ever to walk away of his own free will and live to tell about it - he'd severed whatever hold the man had on him. He'd gone into business for himself, vowing never again to bind himself to a master as he had to Damien, never again to let someone sink so deeply beneath his skin that he breathed, acted, lived, hurt, bled by their will alone-

After all this time, he'd thought he'd finally managed to bleed Damien out of his veins. Yet here he was now, right back, it seemed, where he had started.

Strange how these things worked out …

He stopped a few feet away from the cell door, too smart to put himself within Damien's reach, and opened his mouth to speak-

Only to realize he didn't have the slightest idea what to say.

*~*~*

For long moments, the only sound in the Tombs was that of Eliot's steps, slow and steady. Even after he stopped, the silence hung thick and heavy between them, until Damien broke it.

“Come to gloat?” he asked bitterly, torn between hatred and humiliation. Once upon a time, this man would have torn this building from its foundations to free him. Now he stood gawking, as if watching a zoo animal in its cage. An animal he had helped _put_ in its cage.

Eliot arched a brow and shook his head. “That's more Nate's style than mine,” he answered in a low voice.

Damien almost choked at the mention of the man who'd brought him to this. “ _Nate!_ ” he spat venomously, his accent thickening with rage. “Is that what you've sunk to? Working with conmen? Thieves? Selling yourself out to the _lowest_ bidder, now?” He swept a contemptuous gaze over Eliot and shook his head, sneering. “Christ, how could you debase yourself like that? A man of your talents, your achievements-”

“Should be rottin' in a prison by now,” Eliot finished for him, only too aware of what, exactly, his “achievements” were. “Or, hell, in a grave. Ain't that usually where men like me end up?” He smiled thinly, coldly. “Ain't that where you and Chapman planned on puttin' me?”

Damien snorted. “What was I supposed to do? You betrayed me. Looked into my eyes and _lied_ to me. You sold me out to that bitch-”

“No,” Eliot breathed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “In the end, it had nothin' to do with her.” He nodded toward Damien. “I just realized you were a mad dog that needed to be put down.”

“And Chapman?” Damien prodded, looking for a nerve, any nerve, to strike, needing to wound this man as he’d wounded him. “My men? You killed them all, then walked away to let their bodies _burn_. What does that make you?”

Eliot stepped just a bit closer, his eyes darkening a shade as they caught and held the other man's. “It makes me damn good at what I do,” he said softly, coldly, a coiled snake waiting to strike. “You shoulda remembered that before you sent ’em.”

Damien felt a small chill ripple down his spine as he stared into those eyes. He _did_ remember. How could he not, when he'd harnessed that skill so often for his own purposes? Eliot had been the best weapon in his considerable arsenal, capable of thought as well as action, with a keen, quick mind behind that slow drawl and farm-boy smile. He was smart, levelheaded and steady, could be both blunt instrument and scalpel, knew as well when not to use violence as when to let blood flow. He was cool under pressure - despite that disturbing, berserker smile he sometimes got when a bloody fight loomed - and calculating, and as deadly as they came.

How could he not take full advantage of that? He was a man who believed in using every resource at his disposal, and Eliot Spencer had been a _gift_. He would have been a fool to have let such an asset slip through his fingers.

And Damien Moreau had never been a fool.

“Such a waste,” he breathed, stepping back and crossing his arms against his chest, coolly studying the man before him. “These people you're with now, this Ford and his little band of thieves, these _grifters_ ,” he spat out the word as if it were distasteful, “do they have any idea what they have in you? Do they know what you _are_?”

Eliot froze at the question, his gut clenching hard as he remembered an afternoon in a park when he had stood stripped down to his soul before them, all his sins laid bare. Fuck, yeah, they knew. More than he'd ever wanted them to.

“You're wasting yourself,” Damien said, his eyes and tone pitying. “You don't belong with them, Eliot! You're better than this!” He moved back toward the bars. “You remember how it was when you were with me?” he asked, smiling fondly at the recollection. “You had everything, all at your fingertips! Money, women, the respect of the men around you and the fear of those who stood against you. Eliot Spencer was a _force_!” He chuckled quietly and shook his head, leaning a shoulder against the bars and crossing his arms. “Do you remember when I decided to remove Iskhadov from our weapons trade in Grozny? Christ, the man had made such a mess of things there! He was hopeless, and was bringing us attention we didn't need. But his suppliers insisted they wouldn't deal with anyone but him. Until I sent you to,” he winked, “ _negotiate_ with them.” He grinned broadly, still amused by the episode. “D'you remember that?”

_Never tell a Chechen his sister has a pretty smile._

Yeah, he remembered. He still had the scars. And, occasionally, the nightmares.

Damien chuckled again. “After that, all I had to do was _threaten_ to send you, and men fell over themselves to do my bidding. Are you telling me this Nate Ford and his … _people_ … can give you that kind of power? Do they have any idea how to _use_ you?”

Eliot growled and sprang toward the bars, only pulling himself back at the last moment. But it was enough to drive Damien back in alarm. “They're not interested in _usin'_ me!” he snarled. “Not like you were! I ain't Nate's dog, and I ain't his weapon! And I don't have to lie awake nights wonderin' how in the hell I'm ever gonna wash all that goddamned _blood_ off my fuckin' _hands_!”

“ _That's_ what this is about?” Damien asked sharply, incredulously, staring at Eliot as if he'd never seen him before. “You want to keep your _hands_ clean?” He laughed harshly. “It's a little late for that, don't you think? Or should I remind you of just how many men, and _others_ ,” he added pointedly, “you've put in the ground?”

Eliot flinched. He didn't need to be reminded. There were times he would have given his life to forget.

Damien saw the pain, the guilt, chase across the other man's face and shook his head, smiling sadly. “Eliot,” he all but purred, moving back toward the bars, “you can't change nature! You are what you are. You're a predator! Why deny that? And why waste yourself on people who don't appreciate your gifts, who would make you less than you are?” He stopped and held Eliot's gaze with his, willing the man to understand. “I was right, you know,” he said softly, “the white hat doesn't suit you. Running around and playing these little games is beneath you.” He had a sudden flash of memory and chuckled ruefully. “A Canadian animal rights activist? Please. You were made for bigger things. Remember what we built together? We bent the _world_ to our will!” he recalled fiercely, raising a tightly clenched fist. “And we could do it again. It can be just like the old days. Jupiter and Mars, with all of Rome, the _world_ , bowing at our feet. Just … let me out of here, Eliot,” he asked, his voice low and intimate, almost caressing. “Let me out of here, and come with me. _Stand_ with me, at my right hand. We can rebuild it _all_!”

Eliot went very still inside. Damien's eyes were fixed upon him, staring into him, searching him, his silken voice weaving a magic spell. A very _tempting_ spell. He _did_ remember what they built, the empire they had created, remembered how it had felt to watch Damien gather and wield his power and know that _he_ was a part of that.

_Jupiter and Mars._

But he also remembered what it had _cost_. He'd given Damien pieces of his soul he'd never get back, had let this man bend and twist and ultimately break him, until he'd no longer recognized the face staring back at him from the mirror. Hadn't been able to _look_ in the mirror. He'd _made_ that deal with the devil before.

He wouldn't make it again.

He stalked to the cell once more and wrapped his hands around the bars, glaring through them, wanting nothing more at this moment than to wrap those same hands around Damien's neck and twist. It would save the people of San Lorenzo a lot of time and money, and would make him feel a hell of a lot better. “You're right, I can't change the things I did for you,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “I can't change what I let myself become for you. I crossed lines I never shoulda gone near, and I did it willingly. That's somethin' I'll carry with me the rest of my life. And, someday, I'll have to pay for it. Just like you are now. It's over, Damien. And you lost. Jupiter's fallen, and Mars is goin' home to tend his garden.”

Damien stared at him in disbelief. “So that's it then?” he asked. “After everything we did together, after everything _I_ did for _you_ , you're just going to walk away. Again. And leave me here to … what? Rot in this hole?” He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Do you really think that's how this ends? I have resources you can't even _begin_ to imagine! And, despite what you _think_ happened here, your little band of thieves is no match for what I can do-”

And there it was, the threat he'd feared all along, the one reason above all he'd wanted so desperately to keep his team as far from this man as possible. Damien Moreau traded in lives as if they meant nothing, moved them around like pawns on a chessboard, willing to throw them away whenever it suited his purposes. And he was right, Nate and the others _were_ no match for him.

But Damien had forgotten something.

“They don't have to be,” he said, the soft rasp of his voice as chilling as a rattlesnake's buzz. “Because _I_ am. Let me tell you _exactly_ how this ends.” He dropped his hands from the bars but remained only inches from them, almost daring Damien to come after him. “My team will leave San Lorenzo, and we'll walk away free and clear. No one's comin' after us, no one's even gonna know it was us that got you. Because _you_ ,” he pointed his thumb and two fingers at Damien, very much, and very deliberately, in the shape of a gun, “ain't gonna tell a soul. You can say anything else you want to whoever will listen. Hell, you can even blame _me_ if you want, I don't care. But if I so much as _suspect_ you've put them in danger, no one will ever find your body. And as Hardison will tell you, I am one paranoid motherfucker. So you'd best be careful and pray like hell that nothin' ever happens to them, or I'll be the last thing you ever see.”

Damien swallowed hard, recognizing only too clearly the deadly glint in those blue eyes. _This_ was the man, the menace, he'd so often unleashed against others. “You can't-”

“Of course I can. You know how these things work. Or,” he grinned and shrugged, the charming Southern killer, “you used to. Now,” he stepped back from the bars and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “I'm goin' back upstairs to the party.” He winked. “Lotta pretty girls up there. And some pretty good champagne. Though, like you said, I really do prefer beer.”

He touched two fingers to his forehead in a mocking salute, then turned around and walked back to the elevator, whistling a lively country tune, more relaxed than he’d been in months.

And the last thing Damien Moreau saw before the elevator door slid closed was Eliot Spencer's lazy farm-boy smile, and one hand pointing at him in the shape of a gun.

*~*~*

He slipped back into the ballroom and made his way to the bar, smiling slightly as he realized the crowd seemed as large as ever. Obviously, San Lorenzo had been waiting a long time for this day and had no desire to let it end. He waved a bartender over and ordered a beer, then turned around to watch the crowd-

And found himself face to face with Nate. He stiffened, startled by the man's sudden appearance, then exhaled sharply and relaxed. Damn, but these people were hell on his nerves! He heard the bartender behind him and reached back for his beer, then raised the glass to his lips to drink.

“You get what you needed?” Nate asked casually, watching the younger man.

Eliot froze in mid-sip, tensing again at the question. He knew Nate well enough to realize there was meaning behind it, and one that had nothing to do with his drink. Tonight just seemed to be his night to deal with manipulative bastards.

He lowered the glass and let his gaze drift past Nate to a lovely young woman smiling at him. “Not yet,” he answered, smiling back, “but things are lookin' up.”

Nate arched a brow at the deflection. “Yes, I'm sure you have your seduction all worked out. Tell me, does it involve a trip to the Tombs?”

Eliot's gaze snapped back to Nate, the girl forgotten. He straightened again and set the glass on the bar, then slipped his hands into his pockets to conceal their clenching. “The Tombs?”

Nate exhaled sharply in irritation. “Really?” he asked. “You're gonna make me drag it out of you.” He shook his head slowly. “I thought we were past this.”

Eliot winced, knowing he deserved that. “Look-”

“I saw you leave earlier,” Nate explained. He stepped to the bar and signaled for the bartender. “I was … worried. A room full of beautiful women, and you were leaving. Irish whiskey,” he ordered, then turned back to Eliot. “That seemed a little … odd. So I thought I'd follow you, make sure you were all right. Thank you,” he said to the bartender, picking up his glass. “Imagine my surprise when we ended up down in the Tombs.”

Eliot groaned and bowed his head, then raised a hand to rub his tired eyes. Fuck, where were his glasses? “Nate, man-”

“Of course, the _biggest_ surprise,” he leaned indolently against the bar, fixing unreadable eyes on his hitter, “was hearing you tell the guards you had _orders_ to question Moreau.” He cocked his head to one side and frowned in confusion. “Mind telling me who these 'orders' came from? Because I know they weren't mine.”

Eliot ran a hand through his hair, then lifted his head to meet Nate's gaze, suddenly feeling the weight of this day - hell, of the past six months - settling heavily upon him. “Okay,” he sighed tiredly. “Yeah, I lied. Hell, that's startin' to feel like all I do. But I was gonna tell you, I swear. Though,” he winced and looked away, “after all this, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me.”

But Nate did. He could see the honesty in Eliot's face, as well as the weariness … and a strange kind of peace. That last had been missing for far too long, and he hoped it heralded something good. “All right,” he said, raising his glass, “so tell me now.”

Eliot ran a hand through his hair again, then reached for his beer and took a long drink. Fuck, he was tired! He felt like he'd torn himself open and almost bled out before Damien, and now Nate was here for the rest.

But, hell, he owed him this.

“I just … needed to see him,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “I needed to know it was real, that he was still there, hadn't managed another escape, that it was really over. And that I was … free.” The last word escaped him on a whisper.

Nate set his glass down and straightened, frowning slightly. “Free?” he repeated, worried by the word. “Free from what?”

Jesus, if they lost Eliot over all this …

Eliot sighed and shrugged. “Free from him. Free _of_ him. For so long, he's been like this shadow hangin' over me. I thought I'd gotten away once, thought I’d managed to get his poison outta my system. But it all came back with this job. Everything I did for him- It was like he was livin' in my head again, and every job we did that brought us closer to him just made that worse. I just- I needed to see him, confront him, prove to myself that it really is over.”

Nate nodded slightly, realizing he should have anticipated this. For months, Eliot had been increasingly on edge, his nerves and temper unusually raw, his prized control strained. And the past few weeks had been only worse. He had been forced to use guns again, at what Nate knew must have been a terrible personal price, had been forced to become a killer again. And he'd had to watch as Moreau had found and captured Flores, a man who clearly meant a great deal to him, because of them. For one terrible moment, when he'd seen the sheer _rage_ in Eliot's face, he'd thought they'd lost him for good.

Now, though, he saw no trace in the man before him of the man he'd seen that night in the apartment. Eliot was tired - hell, they all were - and his nerves, mind and soul had taken a brutal beating. But, for the first time in months that Nate could remember, his eyes were clear of shadows.

“And now?” he asked quietly, feeling himself relaxing.

Eliot licked his lips slowly, thinking. That was the question, wasn’t it? Then, his gaze intent on Nate, knowing he was stepping out onto tricky ground, he asked softly, “Do you remember when we took down Blackpoole, how you felt after? It didn't change anything. Sam was still gone, the life you'd had with Maggie was still over, and all the mistakes you'd made were still there. But, with the man who’d caused all that gone, you could finally start to move on, start lookin’ past the hate and the rage to what came next.”

Nate swallowed hard. He _did_ remember. And while Sam's death would _always_ be a gaping wound in him, it didn't haunt him as it once had.

“Yeah,” he breathed, dropping his gaze to his drink.

Eliot nodded. “I can't change what I did for Dam- Moreau,” he rasped. “Some things just can't be undone. But I don't have to look over my shoulder any more. I don't have to worry about y'all findin' out. I can breathe now. And I can stop tryin’ to avoid facin’ that cat in the mirror. I ain't ever gonna be clean again, but at least now I'm … free. I figure that's gotta be worth somethin'.”

Nate studied the younger man intently, seeing the lines time and the life he'd led had etched into his face, the scars that marked his features and the shadows beneath his eyes, and frowned slightly, thoughtfully. He often wondered what Eliot saw when he looked in the mirror, wondered whether he saw the man he'd been, or the man he was becoming. For Eliot's sake, he hoped it was the latter.

 _That_ man was one worth seeing. And knowing.

He hoped Eliot realized that one day.

“Yeah,” he breathed, smiling slightly, “it's worth something. Maybe more than you know.” He nodded toward Eliot's beer. “Now, drink up.” He winked. “We stole a country. I'd say that's worth celebrating.” He lifted his glass in a toast, then walked away.

Eliot watched him go, wondering if he'd be pouring the man onto the plane tomorrow. Wouldn't be the first time.

He turned and looked around, saw Hardison tapping something into his phone while Parker hovered dangerously near a woman wearing a fortune in diamonds around her throat and wrists. And, up in the balcony, Sophie drifted once more into the light, again violating the rules of being dead. He snorted softly and shook his head, smiling despite himself.

Damien had been wrong. He _did_ belong with these people.

More than he'd ever belonged anywhere in his life.

_The End_


End file.
